Amnesia
by Chipmunk-Chihuahua Hybrid
Summary: Found lost and devoid of most of their memories, America and Canada stumble back into the care of France and England. Mostly rated for nudity and language.
1. insert cliche title here

Mindless, confused wandering, as if he was trying to find something, though what he didn't know. In a jacket, a shirt, shoes, he was not familiar with. Wherever he was, it was cold. The greenery was so lush, bright, that tender green the plants only are in the first spring month. The rain was constant, he felt that it never would stop, the wilderness, too, seemed endless, so surreal. He was so tired. The glasses on his nose felt heavy, symbolic. He felt out of place, and that he, too, had a deep, heavy meaning. That the place he belonged was so far, he knew, but he didn't know where that was. How old was he? He felt a weight upon his mind, like endless memories wanted to burst into him, tell him everything he could know. Centuries of knowledge he felt in himself, though his body felt young, adolescent.

And in the haze of the steady rain, through the puffs of smoke his breath produced, he could see a light, yellow and warm, coming towards him. A figure, a man, began to run as he held the light. The silhouette had a coat on, unbuttoned as it flailed in the rain. Was the figure running to him? He could make out features, now, emerald eyes shining in the cold rain, short blonde hair soaked, dripping along his round face. The man was talking, but he couldn't understand. Some anger, annoyance, shone suddenly on the man's face, and then he grabbed the lost one's elbow and started walking in the direction from where he came, dragging him. He could feel the same weight, heavy significance and symbolism in that man as he could feel within himself, and his glasses. And just over the hill he'd been walking up, there was a large home glowing inside with warmth. Heater humming just outside, the man took him in.

Going past a kitchen, into a living room, the man stopped and looked him over, wrinkled his nose, said something else. The adolescent stared, trying to make something of the lip movements. The man rolled his eyes, left the room in a rush, and came back in with a thick blanket, draped the thing over the adolescent's back. He took the adolescent's shoulders, pushed him towards a wall, and when he felt a cushion at the backs of his knees, and the man spoke, "here, sit," the adolescent could understand. The room was so warm, and he was so cold, he felt safer, less out of place there. Clutching the blanket, he then noticed a boy next to him on the couch. He had the same significance, symbolism radiating from him as the lost adolescent and the man, and his face held the same confusion, sense of displacement, that his own held.

"Do you know your name?" The man who had taken him, blonde and proper in a suit, asked.

The adolescent watched his face, the man's thick brows furrowed. He felt that weight in his mind, the emptiness that possessed the rest of his consciousness, but some words, fragments of knowledge reached him, "Al… Alfred." He felt that was his name, and he felt a bit less lost, knowing he had a title.

The man watched him, pursing his lips, "is that it? Your whole name?"

This time it was easier, the information slipping past his tongue as he identified it, "Frank Jones… Alfred Frank Jones."

"That's it? Nothing else?" Alfred nodded, clear blue eyes satisfied.

The man looked behind him, to another man, tall with long blonde hair and blue eyes darkened with some emotion, face serious and arms crossed. The tall man took a deep breath, asked in a smooth deep, accented voice, "You are sure you have no other titles?" Alfred was sure, so he nodded. The tall man shrugged, looked to the emerald-eyed man who'd taken Alfred.

Suddenly the situation seemed oddly familiar to Alfred, and both men seemed like people he knew. He now saw the smaller emerald eyed man in a different time, different place, with a softer face, a hand outstretched to him saying it was time to go home. He remembered seeing the man come to him with a suit, not as long ago, telling him that he needed to dress formally, and that he could also use some new clothes. Alfred, a new age now, saw the man, down on his knees but still taller than him, scolding him, telling him of some large responsibility, and Alfred felt it had something to do with the significance he felt within himself. In the past again, this time Alfred saw the tall man, towering over him, eyes soft, holding a young boy, just a toddler, saying "yes, he's your brother," Alfred reached out to the boy as the man came to his knees, and realized that their hands were the same size, that they were the same age. Alfred then noticed the boy next to him looked like the toddler in the memory. Again in the past, he felt himself in the bath, hating it, struggling, and with the emerald eyed man washing him, his hands so big, angry, washing his hair, the suds getting in his eyes. Alfred now felt a certain protection coming from the emerald-eyed man, as if he was a parent.

"Do you remember me?" The question was sudden, bringing Alfred out of his memories. Alfred looked up at him, eyes dark with thought.

"You're…" Alfred's mind strained, trying to get words out from the weight in his mind, "my…" he murmured, closing his eyes, he remembered baths, meals, the man searching under his bed and in his closet for monsters, "dad" he breathed, the word surfacing with uncertainty, Alfred not sure if that what he normally called the man.

The man who had taken him blanched, staring at him, emerald eyes growing wide. He began taking deep, uneven breaths, wheezing a bit as his eyes darkened. He made a noise deep in his throat, as if to speak, then simply turned to look helplessly at the other man. The tall man had a brow raised, and gave a small smile before coming to stand beside the troubled emerald-eyed man. The tall man put a hand on the short man's shoulder, gave a larger smile to Alfred, "and me?" he asked, "do you remember me?"

Alfred nodded, knowing the man's face, and the tall man's smiled more, "And what you called me, do you remember?"

Alfred watched him, thinking, and he had no idea what he called the tall man, so he shook his head.

The tall man nodded, and said "Papa, I am Papa," eyes gleaming a vivid blue. He nodded to the boy sitting next to him, "and him," he asked, "do you know him?"

Alfred immediately smiled, sure of himself this time, "He's my brother."

And the tall man nodded, pleased, "Yes! He is your twin brother, do you know what that means, that he is your twin?"

Alfred nodded, said, "He's my age, we were born on the same day."

The man, again, nodded, "Very good! And you know his name?" Alfred stared at his brother, eyes darkening with thought, straining to remember, he eventually shook his head.

"His name is Matthew." The tall man told him, voice softer. He moved to Matthew, done speaking to Alfred, then hunched over, looking the boy in the face, "Matthew, are you listening?"

The boy, Matthew, already looking down, gave a small nod. His shoulders were hunched, hands clenched at his knees, whole form speaking of timidness and fear. "Matthew," the tall man asked, "Do you know now who he is" he tilted his head toward Alfred. Matthew nodded, and he began to shake a bit. The tall man stood up, taking one of Matthew's hands, recognizing that the boy was becoming over stimulated. "Come now," he whispered gently, "it is getting late, why don't we get you to bed." He looked to the emerald-eyed man, looking to see if he had gained his composure yet. The two shared a look, and the tall man said, "you too, Alfred, lets get you both into your pajamas."

Alfred followed, watching with wonder as the tall man got a towel from the linen closet, and lead then into a large bedroom; large enough to comfortably fit two full sized beds. He watched as the tall man led Matthew to one of the beds, told him, "this one is yours," and left Matthew there, looking frightened, to lead Alfred to the other bed and say pleasantly, "and this one is yours."

Alfred studied the bed, a large fluffy thing, touched it, saw that it was soft. He felt it, the softness of the cotton, and pressed down on it with both hands. It was bouncy. Behind him, the tall man discovered that Matthew couldn't make odds or ends of his pajamas, wondering at the drawstring on the bottoms. The tall man helped him into them, and left Matthew to fiddle with the drawstring, trying to figure out the knot. He then went to Alfred, stopping him from climbing onto his bed. The man took the moistened blanket from Alfred's shoulders, told him with soft words, with a soft smile, "you are far to wet to go to bed now, let us dry you off," he took the towel to Alfred's hair. Alfred watched the man's face, looked up to his arms, watching them move. The man stopped suddenly, crossing his arms and cocking his head a bit, keeping his soft expression, "do you know how to change clothes?" Alfred blinked, recognizing but not knowing the meaning of the man's words, and he shook his head. The man nodded, and helped him dry off and change, guiding him gently through the steps. Alfred, too, wondered at the drawstrings. The tall man ended the evening by tucking them both in, watching as the moved to fiddle with the sheets, eyes wide at discovering each texture. They both gasped when they noticed that the covers became warm when they let any part of themselves stay on the sheets for a few minutes. When they focused on an individual part- Alfred a loose thread on his pillowcase, Matthew the fold in a corner of the flat sheet- the tall man went to Matthew. Covering his eyes, murmuring soft things to him, the tall man turned the lamp off, momentarily stunning Alfred. Uncovering Matthew's eyes, the boy was frightened, as the man had expected, and he let the boy calm and become used to the dimmer light. He whispered to Matthew, "just try and relax, go to sleep, dad and I will be nearby if you need anything," between goodnights, then did the same for Alfred. He left them like that, with soft words in a dark room, leaving the door ajar to let in the light from the hall.

The tall man then went downstairs urgently but with silence, going to the emerald-eyed man who'd calmed himself by then. He was sitting on the couch, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he thought on the events of the day. The tall man sat down next to him, closer than he normally did; hip to hip, shoulder to chest (the emerald eyed one was a good deal shorter that the other man). The tall one leaned down to the small man's ear, murmured, "They are not yet asleep, Arthur." Arthur gave a small nod.

"Francis" Arthur breathed, voice heavy with emotion, "what the bloody hell happened! Do they look younger to you, too?"

Francis nodded, "they are so much smaller, they seem no older than fifteen," he bit his lip, rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble at his chin.

"And they don't remember a thing" Arthur murmured, took a deep breath.

Francis nodded, took a breath, "We will care for them together," he said, "non? And of course," he added, "they know that they are brothers, but," his voice became deeper, tone not quite suggestive, "they think that we are their parents."

Arthur stiffened, looked up suspiciously at Francis, "look, you fag," he whispered venomously, "I already told you I'm not interested in you."

Francis smirked, "I never said we had to take things that far. I was simply going to suggest we put aside our differences to help Matthew and Alfred get through whatever is going on with them." Arthur's expression changed from that of suspicion to anger and disbelief, "Of course," Francis purred, "If you wish, of course, we could add a new dimension to our relationship."

Arthur then chose to elbow Francis in the stomach, smiling when Francis doubled over, gasping. The man leaned back onto the couch after a minute, holding his stomach, regaining the rhythm to his breath. "I think you are tired, Arthur," Francis said breathlessly a few minutes later, "you seem grumpy." He stood, shaky from getting the air knocked from him, "Come, let us go to bed."

Arthur watched the man with a brow raised, but stood after Francis turned back form the stairs to look at him. "Why are you trying to lead me?" Arthur asked silently, "this is my house." Francis just smiled, and opened the door to Arthur's bedroom. He walked to the middle of the room, in front of a generous queen bed. Arthur suddenly felt that elbowing Francis in the stomach hadn't quite been enough when he saw the smile the man gave him.

"They think we are their parents," Francis whispered, "and parents share a bed, non?"

Author's notes: How's that for a first fic? XD But da well, I hope some of the weaker spots in this aren't too distracting (I'm at a loss on how to fix them), and that Arthur's little 'asthma attack' isn't too alarming. I know it's random, but England is a little too defensive in this chapter to explain himself. XP But reviews are desired, and I think that since it's winter break, and I wish to procrastinate on that paper I have to write, and that I don't think I have anything better to do (how sad DX) I think I'll start on the second chapter tomorrow. :D let's hope it turns out longer!


	2. huevos

So sorry for the slow update, AP World History is a total bitch, especially as AP exams come 'round the corner. (As some of you know very well.) I must say that an unclear mixture of school, social life, and an unyielding sloth are the excuses I make for my slow update now, and the slow updates I shall make in the future. I apologize, but that is simply the order of things.

And to take care of business I shall try my damndest to never forget in the future:

DISCLAIMER- I abso-freakin'-lutely do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia! I do not materialistically profit from the writing of this fan fiction.

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As the English sun drifted in through heavy curtains and tender wild flowers bloomed in the spring, little birds chirped and jumped and flew in the air, having eaten their fill of worms. It was large house asleep in the life which possessed an air of importance. There wasn't an aristocratic feel the place had, but that something special, something good resided within was the feel, and the plants, the animals, the soil, the land loved it. After the downstairs drapes were opened, the owner of the home, the occupant who the land loved, leaned against the kitchen door and looked upon his land. He opened the thick wooden barrier, cup of steaming tea in hand, and walked outside. Mud dirtied his pajama bottoms, but he didn't mind. He walked out in to the fenceless yard, neighbors too far away to be seen, and sat in the moisture, mud, life.

He did not own the land; he was a part of it, a product of it, a representation of it. He was a personification of a deep something, some force outside human understanding. He was the land, he was the people, he was the landscape, the religion, the philosophy, the culture, the animals, the spirits. He was something the wild and the civilized listened to, yet he took orders from them. He was something big, yet he was such a small man. He was so old, yet his body was in its prime. He was the soul of his people, a personification of their culture, their values. He was so many things. But as he sat there, smiling as the birds and squirrels bounced and pranced and played, he was simply a friend of the wild. But predictably, to ruin the peace, Francis, hair taking on a medusa-like quality with curls waving about wildly as he moved, large sections being held in place by a complex system of single strands tangled about like queer pulleys stuck his head out of the kitchen, "Good morning, Arthur," he called cheerily, accent adding a sing-song quality, "Shall I make us all omelets?"

Arthur, brow twitching, stood, and finished his tea. That morning, the Englishman had less of a tolerance for Francis' strange antics than he usually did- there was nothing like losing an argument and sharing a bed with an annoying Frenchman to kick start one's day. Walking into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Francis wearing clothes; the letch was practically a nudist.

Francis had a frying pan with olive oil heating on the stove, and he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. On the counter lay various ingredients. As Francis set the beat eggs aside, and went to cooking the vegetables, Arthur watched him prepare the meal, setting the vegetables aside when they were done and starting on the eggs once again. Francis went about setting out four plates on the counter, stuffing and folding the first omelet, cooking, stuffing, folding the other three. When the Frenchman was done, and was setting the table, Arthur said, "I'll go get the boys."

As he walked to the stairs, Francis called after him, "hope and pray they wake up normal, non?" And Arthur did.

When Arthur walked into the bedroom where he thought Francis would put them in (his assumption was right), he saw the boys had woken up, and they were trying to figure out how to take off each other's pajamas. Arthur froze, stared open-mouthed, as Alfred pushed up Matthew's shirt, poked his belly button; Matthew just stared at himself in fascination.

"Alfred! Matthew!" Arthur finally cried, "Get your hands off each other!" He ran to them, tore them apart, and like infants, they watched him, Alfred confused, Matthew frightened.

Exasperated, Alfred took their wrists and dragged them downstairs. "Francis, it's no better; they're worse!" Alfred and Matthew stumbled behind, looked around the kitchen with new curiosity, "they were trying to strip each other! The indecency!"

Francis spun around, rose a brow and smirked when he saw the sight; Arthur the prudish Englishman dragging in two confused and curious teenagers. "Arthur," he said, obviously trying not to laugh, "they are like babies—they know nothing but they want to know everything." He watched Matthew tentatively touch the wall, wide-eyed at the texture.

Arthur watched them, saw Alfred become occupied with fiddling with his stray hair. "They should know better; it should be instinct."

Francis watched Arthur, realizing the truth of his words. All of their kind were born knowing the language and culture of their people, as well as being perfectly capable of learning the political organization of the land and quickly learning the technology of the people. But first and foremost, they were creatures of the land- every damage made was a scar on their skin, every drought, every flood a fever to them. They were bound body and soul to the land, but they were born, raised, and lived as personifications of a people. Social boundaries should be instinct. Francis watched them, innocent and oblivious, exploring their surroundings as thoroughly as Arthur's hold on their wrists would allow.

That was the scary thing—they clearly didn't know what should come naturally. While it was all right for two people to explore one another in private, doors closed, if they were caught it was another story, it then became an awkward situation; they should know that.

Francis' and Arthur's eyes met, and they looked at the boys. Alfred seemed to have just realized the men had been talking, and he watched them curiously. First to recover, Francis smiled at them, "come now boys, shall we eat?" They had no idea what he meant.

Francis sighed, took Matthew's hand, lead him to a chair, looking to Arthur, nodding when the Englishman lead Alfred to sit at the table, too. Arthur look the fork on Alfred's plate, "do you know what this is?" he asked, and when Alfred shook his head, Arthur said, "This is a fork." Matthew watched intently, picked up the fork at his own plate.

Fork," he murmured, wonder in his voice and eyes.

Francis nodded, sitting next to Matthew, "Yes," he said, "That is a fork." As Alfred took his fork from Arthur, and repeated the word, he turned his attention to Francis as the Frenchman spoke again. "Do you two know what forks are used for?" Two shaking heads were his answer. He smiled, took Matthew's fork and said, "You use them to eat, like this." He used the fork to slice off a corner of Matthew's omelet, and he stuck it onto the utensil. Francis brought the food to Matthew's mouth. The teenager sniffed it, studied the thing. "Say 'ahhhh,'" Francis said, opening his mouth to make the noise. Matthew shyly opened his mouth a bit, and Francis poked Matthew lips with the food. Matthew opened his mouth to let the food inside. He stayed like that, food awkwardly in his mouth, and Francis smirked, "now do this," he dramatically opened and closed his mouth, making an "om!" noise. Matthew closed his mouth, biting down on the fork. Francis smirked, said, "Keep it closed!" and swiped the fork from Matthew's mouth. The teenager made a noise of surprise, but was too engrossed by the texture and taste of the omelet to stay unhappy. Francis waited, Mathew still watching him, then the teenager looked down and began to chew, and Francis put a hand over his heart and sighed with relief. And just when Francis put the fork in Matthew's hand, curling the teen's fingers around it to show him how to hold it, Arthur asked him, "do you think you can do that?" Matthew stared at Arthur, then looked down at his omelet.

To demonstrate again, Francis ate a piece of his own omelet, and Matthew decided to try. He was able to cut off a piece, take it onto the fork with little trouble, and he ate it with ease. Francis smiled, "very good, Matthew! Now, do you think you can eat the entire omelet," he pointed to the food, "off your plate?" he pointed to the ceramic plate. Matthew watched Francis point, absorbing the information. He ate another piece, and Francis smiled before he started on his own breakfast.

Alfred then looked down at his own omelet, and clutching his fork with a face of determination, he tore into his own food. Stabbing, cutting, and tearing in all the wrong order, Alfred only attempted to eat when the neat French omelet on his plate was reduced to a pile of torn eggs and veggies. Arthur, Matthew, and Francis simply stared. Smiling triumphantly, Alfred scooped up the torn remains of omelet and stabbed it into his mouth. Like that, in a tornado of torn food, Alfred ate his omelet. Finished, all eyes on him, the teen smiled and burped.

"Just like Ludwig eating potatoes," was what Francis said.

"Some things never change," was Arthur's murmured, brow taking on a twitch of anger.

Matthew stared at Alfred, the smiling twin, looked wide-eyed at Arthur's annoyed expression, glanced at Francis' dull expression, then brought his attention to his own plate before continuing to eat as Francis has taught him. The men then slowly turned to their food, Arthur shaking his head, and breakfast continued in an awkwardness that Alfred was blissfully oblivious of.

Soon, when Matthew finished, he watched Arthur and Francis eating. They both used knives, alien objects to him, and they used proper table manners, but to Matthew they just looked stiff. He noticed his brother was staring curiously at a large thing in the room. It had knobs and round things on it, and there was also a door with a window showing the white thing's dark interior. Alfred turned in his chair to look at it more closely, seeing numbers around the dials. Arthur looked at Alfred, done with breakfast, and saw that Alfred seemed fascinated with the stove.

"That's a stove, Alfred. You shouldn't touch it, you'll hurt yourself."

Alfred turned to Arthur, "stove?" he asked.

"Yes, Alfred, stove," Arthur told him, "Fr- Papa," Arthur corrected himself, "and I use it to cook food," he pointed to his empty plate. Alfred nodded, and stared at the thing. "And neither you or Matthew are not allowed to touch it without Papa's or my permission."

Francis chuckled at Arthur, "well then," he said staring at a piece of mushroom that seemed to have mysteriously found its way to Alfred's eybrow, "don't you think it's about time for their baths, Arthur?" At the new phrase, the twins turned their rapt attention to Francis, and Arthur blanched.

"You boys know how to take a bath, right?" Arthur asked, though it sounded more like begging. Two blank stares and the shaking of Alfred's head were his answers. Arthur's eyes grew wide and he looked to Francis pleadingly.

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Another post my unofficial beta will murder me for DX barely edited, I still believe this is better than the first chapter. This is actually only part of what I originally intended to be the second chapter, but the next scene is actually a big, fat, ugly bitch to write. As spring break has arrived, I'll try to subdue my lazy nature long enough to write the next scene (which will most likely end up long enough to be a third chapter, gah!) but I'm not making any promises. Anxiously awaiting your reviews,

--Chipmunk_Chihuahua


	3. Bath time

I'm very sorry for the long wait! I'm very busy with school right now, so I'd keep anticipating long waits for updates. XP

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There was a tension in the kitchen as Francis smiled on at the twins while Arthur, pale in the face, stared at Francis mutely. The bed-headed Frenchman turned to Arthur, keeping that same pleasant smile and said, "I'm assuming, Arthur, that you would like for me to take precedence in this."

A prominent brow twitched and a vein began to bulge before Arthur answered, "yes," a bit to roughly for his own taste, so he cleared his throat to continue, "yes, Francis, that would be nice." There was a repressed emotion within his voice, something akin to annoyance or anger, but he spoke in a very soft tone.

With that, Francis rose and strode around the table to gently take Matthew's hand, "come, Matthew, my son," he murmured in the gentlest tone he could manage. There was a tender smile at his lips and his blue eyes were darkened with paternal affection. Matthew, defenseless from the look begging trust and speaking of only the purest intentions and love, became transfixed upon the face, and followed where the tender hold led him.

So it was up the stairs and into an alien room where Matthew was taken. The room was much smaller than any he'd been in so far, and it was filled with strange things. The closest was an odd object that was similar, in a way, to the thing he'd eaten at. But when he put his hand on it, it was colder and smoother than the thing he'd eaten at. When Matthew ran his hand along it, there was a deep indent towards the middle, with a sort of hole at the deepest point. An indescribable, shiny, contraption was at the indent's farthest point, and as he ran his fingers along it, exploring it, Francis put his arm around Matthew's waist and whispered, "that is the sink, Matthew."

The teenaged boy looked up at his papa and repeated the word "sink," with wonder, then he turned his attention back down to the great indent and the shiny contraption.

Francis watched Matthew's wonder at the sink with an unusually calm expression, and the man took a breath for courage before ambulating over to the bath. "Come, now," he said before reaching out a hand towards the seemingly mentally deficient boy. So Matthew, hands reaching to fiddle with the bottom button of his pajama shirt as he left the sink, shuffled up to stand behind his papa.

"Now then, Matthew," Francis started as he put the plug in the bathtub drain, "there will be a noise." And with that warning, the Frenchman turned the faucet to release hot water into the tub. At the sudden sound of water rushing through pipes within the walls filling the small room, Matthew leapt in fright, landed upon his feet poorly, and ended up on his bottom, shielding his face in fright. Francis spun around upon hearing Matthew land, and his immediate reaction to the affrighted face of Matthew was to kneel down and embrace the boy.

"Now, now," he murmured in the tone he always used to comfort, "what has you so afraid?"

And Matthew was whimpering, eyes fixed upon the water pouring out of the faucet in horror. Francis tried rocking the teen back and fourth, puzzled though he tried to help, kissing Matthew's face before placing the teen's head onto his shoulder to kiss the top of his son's head. He continued to stroke his son's hair gently, soothingly as he murmured comforts into the boy's ear. Matthew's terror didn't subside until the tub was full, and Francis reached over to the faucet (still holding Matthew) to stop the water pouring. With silence restored, Matthew slowly calmed, and when he lifted his face form Francis' shoulder, the teen was red in the face, eyes glossy and near tears. He rose to his knees, tentatively, and with newfound curiosity crawled over to the water. The teen's papa could only stare as the boy, having quickly recovered from his episode, found his courage again to explore the bath as if it was some wondrous miracle to be marveled at.

Truly not understanding why his son had freaked out, Francis recovered somewhat and cleared his throat, "…erm, yes, Mathew, that is the bathtub," and the teen turned to look at Francis before repeating 'bathtub' just the same as he repeated any other new word. So Francis continued in a slightly less shaken tone, "yes, and inside the bathtub is water." And Matthew repeated 'water' just the same as he repeated any other new word. Getting on his knees, just behind Matthew, Francis continued as he began unbuttoning his son's shirt, "you will need to get into the tub, but first you must undress." Matthew repeated 'undress' just the same as he repeated any other new word. He looked down upon his torso as Francis undid the buttons of his pajama shirt, and he smiled tentatively- he'd figured out how to do that with his brother, Al.

So when Francis had Matthew's shirt off, and was about to start on the pants, Matthew untied the drawstring, and shoved his pants and underwear to his knees. He straightened innocently, grinning now that he'd done something. He turned his head to look at his papa, and he noticed that his papa's face seemed to have darkened a bit. The man's hands still hovered over Matthew's hips, halfway on their way to the drawstrings of the pants now pooled at his knees, and when Matthew looked down at them they were shaking a bit. The smile fell from Matthew's face, and he murmured, "Papa?"

Francis reply was a just as simple as the question; a sigh speaking of joy and restraint, accompanied by, "Matthew." The boy noticed, though, that his name had been spoken differently. The last sound of his name, 'ew', had been pronounced with _something_. He bit his lip and looked to Francis' nose and cheek (that was really all he could see because the man's head was resting on his shoulder). He felt Francis's jaw tighten on his shoulder, and he felt Francis move his hands to rest upon his upper arms. Though his papa's hands Matthew could feel the muscles in Francis' arms strain, and Matthew was confused. Francis then stood, and with one hand wiped his nose, and when Matthew looked he saw a red streak on the back of his papa's hand. There was a different smile on Francis' face- made his eyes narrow, grin huge and full of anticipation, and that made Matthew a little nervous.

Francis took a deep breath and the grin lessened a bit as far as the intensity of strange joy. He took Matthew's upper arms again and pulled his son to stand, and while murmuring instructions in a deeper, breathier voice he aided Matthew in stepping out of his pants. He applied pressure to Matthew's shoulders to compel the teen to move foreword, and he kept pushing until Matthew was made to stand in the water of the bath. With pressure applied to a different part of Mathew's shoulders, the teen was made to sit in the hot water.

And the first thing that Matthew noticed about the bath, was that the water felt really good. It relaxed the muscles in his legs and lower back, soothing an ache from a tension he hadn't even known he felt, and when Mathew leaned back he realized the smooth, shiny white wall around the tub was of a different texture than the rougher walls in the rest of the room and house. And it, too soothed his muscles and relaxed him, lessening an ache from the tension he hadn't known was there. While still studying his surroundings and being alert to anything new Francis might teach him, Mathew was vaguely aware that something extremely unpleasant had caused the muscles in his body to be tense and achy. He couldn't comprehend such an evil, nor could he recall the ill feelings that the evil had aroused in him. But as Francis looked down at him with the frightening smile gone, kneeling in front of the tub, seemingly taking in the details of Matthew's body as the teen sat cross-legged in the clean sweet water, the teen felt safe and loved, so Matthew expelled all confusing and worrisome thoughts from his mind to focus on his papa (even though he did have some questions as to what the things were that sat on a surface between the tub and the smooth and shiny wall).

There was a silence in the room for some time. Francis began to fret as he tried to figure out how to proceed, while Matthew's attention drifted and he became satisfied looking around, studying his surroundings like the average infant (out of his reflections, Matthew's eyes were no longer darkened with thought). Breaking the quiet, there was a frustrated yell from downstairs as Arthur realized that Francis had left him with the dishes, creating the transition for Francis to decide to just go with his instincts and see where that lead him (though the memory of Mathew not needing any instruction on how to do simple daily tasks when Francis had stumbled upon the toddling personification of the frozen north across the Atlantic nagged him at the back of his head). Francis smiled and took hold of the used rag hanging off the bath faucet, wet it, and reached around to massage the back of Matthew's neck with the wet washrag. The teen relaxed even more, eyes darkening from the pleasantness of the rubbing.

"To take a bath," Francis started, tone low and smooth, "one must make themselves wet." The Frenchman lowered the rag down to Matthew's shoulders, "to do so, one must rub themselves, not missing an inch, until they are sufficiently moistened." He massaged across Matthew's chest and into his stomach, making his way to the surface of the water. There was a crash and some yelling from Arthur downstairs, but Francis ignored it while Matthew didn't appear to notice. The Frenchman continued to rub at Matthew's chest, stomach, arms until his son's front side was dripping with water. There were more loud noises (it was loud footsteps and perhaps a joyous laugh, followed by Arthur's scolding), and again they were ignored. Francis trailed the rag from Matthew's collar bone to belly, moving the rag lower until it was just below the belly button, completely submerged in water. He studied Matthew again, and the teen was limp and relaxed, eyes fixed on his papa's face. More noise was ignored, even as it crescendo'd in the way that sound does as it comes nearer. Francis only heeded the noise when it came to the door and burst into the bathroom.

Francis turned immediately around with the expression that any one of Ludwig's dogs took on whenever they got caught eating paperwork (especially a utility bill), or chewing on the German's good shoes, or urinating on the gift of homage Ludwig was to give the Sultan when he and the Ottoman Empire cemented an official alliance back in WWI, or anything else that was considered Bad and Wrong. And Arthur saw where Francis' hand was.

"You bloody pervert!" was the instinctive yell that escaped Arthur's mouth as he carried on the instinctive reaction- yanking his life long enemy by the shirt collar, slamming him against the sink (and of course Francis cried out and arched when his tail bone was hit against the edge of the counter, and the Frenchman cringed as he imagined the colors that the spot over his butt would turn once the bruise decided to show itself). Arthur then took Francis' neck and throttled the man, not quite cutting off the passage of air as he began to rant at Francis (the general idea was that the sordid, lecherous, vile Frenchman was not to be trusted around the boys when they were in a state as vulnerable as the one they were in at that moment).

So while one of the parental figures was getting assaulted by the other, Matthew watched with a nervous expression from the tub. Alfred backed away from the two towards the bath before turning to see Matthew's reaction. He saw a victim in his brother, and the risk-taking, out going twin felt a protective tendency bubbling up from a fissure within slumbering memories. A bit of the old Alfred seemed to have been uncovered before the oblivious guardians, and the teen began frantically looking around the alien room. He took the washrag (it was floating protectively over Matthew's genitals), and tied it onto three simple knots. He spotted a loofah, and he stuffed both dripping ends of the rag into one of the openings on the cylindrical personal hygiene device. There was a plunger behind the toilet, so Alfred snatched it by the rubber part (unknowledgeable of its purpose), and shoved it through the side of the loofah (piercing the useful thing through the middle so thoroughly that it was quite close to being ripped in half. There was a bottle of Irish Springs shower gel already opened on a wire shelf held up by small plungers beneath the showerhead. Alfred grabbed it so roughly that green ooze spurted out the opening. Seized by a brilliant idea, Alfred squeezed the green stuff with the strong smell along one side of the unfortunate loofah. On the other side, he simply squeezed two dripping dots onto the part of the rag sticking out of the loofah. Grinning at the finished (dripping, smelly, torn, effectively ruined and laughable) product, Alfred turned to the still occupied adults. He wanted to say something, a phrase that would be good to proclaim when he carried out his brilliant plan to stop the fighting that upset his little brother (even though Matthew really was the oldest)… but he couldn't recall it! But Alfred Franklin Jones never backed down because of uncertainty, he knew that for sure, so he raised his creation and threw it in a way that he knew was purely his own.

It hit Arthur square in the face, soap smearing itself into his hair, eyes, nose, and mouth, excess gel spattered into Francis mouth, hitting the poor man in the back of the throat to choke him even more than he already was. The short, furious hazel eyed man turned from his victim to direct his chameleon eyes to his son (they'd turned a bright vivid green with the passion of his anger).

"It's a-!" and he began repeating 'a' as he searched for the elusive noun that he knew he loved even though he couldn't remember it. "I'm a-!" He tried, but the precious favorite word still evaded him.

Arthur gave a fast sideways glance to the creation- loofah now in half, plunger in the sink, and rag on the floor by the door with a green mess of soap all over the place. He knew Alfred well, and he knew the word the teen was becoming increasingly agitated over. "You were trying to be a 'hero'." Arthur told his son, slouching as his eyes dulled to a more natural shade of green because of his depleting anger.

It was as if Alfred had suddenly figured out the meaning of life itself. "Yeah!" he cried as he straightened, eyes taking on an almost electric shade of blue in his excitement. "I used a hero to stop you guys, so I'm a hero!" His arms were in the air with excitement from his revelation, and he looked over his shoulder to see that Matthew didn't look scared anymore. He just seemed to be taking in the scene, relaxed in the bath. There was a tinge of worry darkening his eyes, but Alfred didn't notice.

"A toilet plunger, a soapy loofah, and a wet rag? That's a hero?" Arthur just looked appalled. (An innocently gleeful 'yes!' was the answer.)

The only sound in the room was that of Francis on the ground, coughing and massaging his throat as a purple ring formed around it.

"And why did you do that?" Arthur asked, cocking his head and raising a brow as one corner of his mouth lifted, shoulders slumping even more in the same movement. His face clearly showing that he thought he was speaking to a mentally challenged individual, and was getting very tired of it.

Alfred's eyes clouded a bit in thought, and he turned to look at Matthew. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, "he… he…" was what the teen was murmuring in thought, "he… dam-… dam-… damsel!" he said a bit louder when he figured out the word he wanted (even though it felt incomplete on it's own).

The Englishman's mouth fell open as he became more appalled at Alfred's sheer level of current ignorance, "Matthew was a damsel in distress?" He'd known the phrase that Alfred hadn't been able to recall, and his brow began to twitch a little, his voice had been dull. He wasn't quite sure of what to do at that point.

Alfred turned back 'round to Matthew, and he noticed that Matthew was sitting naked in an odd place (and wasn't getting scolded for it). The gentler brother looked up at Alfred and saw the wonder in his eyes. "It's a bath," he said, straightening, "water feels good," Matthew elaborated as he scootched to the side, giving his brother room. Alfred immediately grinned and shucked his clothes. Curiously stepping in and kneeling down to sit cross-legged like his brother, Alfred's smile grew to be more relaxed from the soothing warmth. He, too, hadn't even known his muscles were achy and tense until they relaxed. He leaned back to the cool tile and felt it's different soothing just like Matthew. Matthew smiled when his brother seemed happy, and he turned to watch Francis rise to clap the still motionless Arthur on the shoulder.

"It was a good move allowing Alfred to come in here- this way we can save water, oui?" He took Arthur by the shoulders and turned the man to face the destruction of the loofah. When there was no reaction from Arthur, Francis added for the sake of provocation, "I'll just bathe them both and you can take care of Alfred's mess." And he walked over to the edged of the tub. To make sure he did a thorough job, Francis lamented, "ah, the rag is dirty now that it's on the floor and the loofah is torn to shreds, so I'll just have to used my bare hands!" That did it.

Arthur spun around and shoved Francis to the other end of the rather undersized room, "no, I'll bathe them, you clean this soapy disaster," he said firmly.

Francis smiled and went on to the task of cleaning up Alfred's mess, and Arthur knelt down at the tub with an air of blatant annoyance hanging about him.

"I am _not _going to bathe you two." Was the first thing Arthur told the boys, and the pleased expressions were wiped from their faces at their dad's tone. "Just," He started as he cupped his hands and splashed water on both the boys' hair until the water dripped down their faces, and he went for the shampoo. Then Arthur squirted a modest amount onto the top of each of their heads before instructing, "rub that into your hair." They both looked quite confused with the mound of gel on their heads, soaking into their hair. Arthur got a bit more annoyed as the two stared at him, and he placed both their hands on their heads. With both teen's hands resting on their heads, he took one wrist from each of them and rubbed the limp hands demonstratively on each respective scalp. They still seemed confused.

Francis was giving the scene glances from over his shoulder as he rinsed the soap form the floor with the rag Alfred had thrown. He could see the boys get more nervous as Arthur became more and more exasperated. He stood back from the rinsed sink area, and threw the twins a gentle, reassuring smile (he knew his eyes would shine with a loving glint along with the smile, it came naturally with the expression) before leaving briefly to fetch a few towels from a linen closet close to the bathroom.

Once Francis was back, Arthur had already given up and was bathing the two himself. He went quickly from one to the other, washing Alfred's hair, then Matthew's. Washing Alfred's torso, then Matthew's. Instructing Alfred to stand, running soapy hands over buttocks, genitals, legs as quickly as possible before having the teen sit back in the water to rinse, then doing the same to Matthew. He had them both washed in ten minutes. The twins seemed perplexed, and Matthew looked nervous when Arthur had them step out of the tub to drip on the floor, and Alfred followed confidently after his brother. Francis tossed Arthur a towel as he was bending over to unplug the bath stopper to let the water drain, so he hit the Englishman square in the ass. Arthur jumped and grabbed the towel, glaring at Francis as he moved to begin drying off Alfred. Francis toweled off Matthew in a gentler way than Arthur used to dry Alfred, and when the boys were satisfactorily dry Francis said to Arthur, "since we don't have any of their clothes, why don't we go and put these boys in some of my (more fashionable than yours) clothes?"

Arthur seemed about to protest, chest puffing up as though he was going to argue, but instead he suddenly deflated and looked off to the side before saying, "fine. But that's only because you'll have to more laundry to do since they're your clothes, and it'll wear them out more quickly."

So the rivals were able to get their boys dressed, each in a pair of Francis' pajamas (Arthur had been appalled that the man who he thought always slept in the nude ((he was proven wrong on that assumption last night, because Francis had worn pajamas)) owned more than one pair of pajamas, though they seemed rather old even though they were clearly well cared for). And of course if the bath hadn't given enough emphasis to how much smaller the boys were, Francis' clothes seemed far to big on the boys even though only a few days ago they'd both been head and shoulders above the Frenchman. Arthur hadn't been able to remember Alfred ever looking that age, and he wondered in the back of his mind if he'd missed that point in Alfred's development during the period of Salutary Neglect.

From there, they moved into the sitting room, and Arthur whispered into Francis's ear, "_I'll stay here and try and get an idea of what these two remember. You should go out of earshot and get a hold of all our bosses, especially America's. You know how his bosses always are; he's likely to be making a national scene if Alfred left his home without letting the man know_." This was all said in the old Angle form of English that he knew neither Matthew nor Alfred understood.

Francis made a face, "_you know how I hate it when you demand things,_" he whispered back in French, "_but what you say makes sense..."_ He crossed his arms and straightened, expression becoming cocky, "_say please, and I'll do it. In French"_

They both glanced back to Mathew and Alfred, and the twins looked confused. Then both men then knew that the boys had forgotten their French.

"_This is not the time to play games, Francis, this is about maintaining good relations with national leaders. Just go!"_ Again, this was spoken in the Angle tongue.

Francis noted the way Arthur was prickling with anger, and he looked over the Englishman's shoulder to see that Matthew seemed to be getting nervous again. He replied in French, _"fine,"_ and he turned and started back up the stairs, "_but I'll be getting back at you for your rudeness tonight!"_ he called in a cheery, light-hearted tone when he'd disappeared into the upstairs hall.

* * *

Yes. Paragraph twelve. THAT is my description of Francis's rape face. XD Thank you so much, everyone who reads this! Any review I get makes me SO VERY happy, so please review! Oh, and if you have any questions about the meaning of any sentences, please review or message me so I can clarify. :3 I know a few sentences in there are a little hard to get.


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